


dream as if you'll die forever

by b_90



Series: Kinktober 2020 [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Dream Sex, F/F, Knifeplay, Mildly Dubious Consent, Smut, this is very weird and maybe slightly creepy dont @ me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26794876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_90/pseuds/b_90
Summary: Eve dreams of terror, and desire, and Villanelle.written for kinktober 2020 'knifeplay' prompt. set somewhere around 3x06.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: Kinktober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953997
Comments: 20
Kudos: 71





	dream as if you'll die forever

In the dream, it’s always cold.

Sometimes they’re in real places -- The apartment in Paris. A hotel room. Other times, they’re nowhere at all -- stairwells and parking garages, liminal spaces that Eve’s mind creates which only have to mean that there is no escape.

This time, she’s in her old home in London. The space feels almost like it should, except that the doors are all missing. Dream logic is skeletal like that. Bones of memory, marrow of feelings. All of it in rapid decay, and all of it shambling forward anyway.

Eve is standing in the cool dark. Satin clings to her skin.

Villanelle is silhouetted in the hall.

“Don’t run.” She says, and in the dream, Eve never can.

She’s frozen in place, petrified as Villanelle moves -- silent and so fast, eyes like a demon as she vanishes across the distance between them and flashes something in the dark.

It’s always the same knife.

Eve had felt it once before, levelled against her collarbone on the night that the dreams first started. It’s nothing special, just a kitchen knife, but that isn’t the point.

The point is in the way that Villanelle handles it, the way it spins in her long fingers before cutting open Eve’s dress, ruining it to make way for the hand that smooths over her belly, and then further down, to where she wants it.

It’s maddening, the way the dream provides for her. Pure indulgence, wrapped neatly in an alibi.

She always knows that Villanelle’s fingers find her wet. Always gets to hear the hum of approval, gets to close her eyes and be touched.

The blade against her throat is a reward, a grace. It’s what lets her stay put, after all.

“Look at me.” Villanelle rasps, and Eve does. “Are you scared?” She always asks while Eve can see her eyes. Green and grey, life and death.

Eve would answer if not for the blade, if not for her dream. She’d say _yes_ and _no_ and _kiss me_ , but those things don’t fit here, those things are only absurd enough for real life. So Eve just shivers because Villanelle knows the answers anyway, and because she is pushing inside of her, and holding her so tight and so steady that the cut on Eve’s neck must have been on purpose, and it bleeds and bleeds.

Villanelle breathes her name, and it’s the last thing Eve hears before the dream changes, before it blurs, becoming a mess of barely constructed images -- bodies and fear and desire.

The gash on her throat is gaping now, swollen and welling over with red, but Villanelle’s mouth is there, so hot that it burns, her tongue wide and flat as she licks through long tendrils of blood. Eve feels their trails prickling as they run down over her collarbone, over her breasts, collected in Villanelle’s hands, greedy, squeezing.

“Give it to me, Eve.” Villanelle is whispering. “It was mine first, anyway.”

Eve shudders as they fall, as they land on the bed. Villanelle is straddling her, pinning her bucking hips and pressing hard into her injured stomach, where it bleeds, where she shouldn’t pull the knife out because it belongs there inside her.

Villanelle does it anyway, but only so she can put it back -- harder, rougher, like Eve would want it, like Villanelle would know how to give her.

Villanelle knows, god, she knows, and Eve bleeds and bleeds.

“Do you like that?” Villanelle sighs, buried to the hilt. “Tell me you like it.”

“I hate you.” Eve says, already stiffening in the Roman dust, practicing her rigor mortis.

“No.” Villanelle pulls Eve against her chest, so gently, as always, as makes no fucking sense.

“I do.” Eve spits, and melts under the soft hands that search her, touch her, shake life into her limbs.

“You don't understand what that means.” Villanelle replies, just as she finds the stitches on Eve’s back. Together they cut them apart and spread the wound open wide. Eve likes the stretch.

“I'm going home.” Villanelle says quietly, and climbs in. With no one left to see, Eve sews her deep inside.

In the dream it’s always warm for just a moment. Eve knows this next part can be tricky. It's important to remember, the dream provides.

It's her New Malden apartment, but it's different. It's tidy, and sunny, with a touch of chic-as-shit. She looks down and sees Villanelle curled against her, watches as she kisses the incision over her heart, as she licks her wounds, making them better, with blood on her lips and hope in her eyes. Green and gold, life and something precious.

When she’s all clean they lie nose to nose and breathe softly. Villanelle smells good. Somehow, Eve knows they’ve just finished -- the violence, the playing. It feels safe. It feels like they'll go again, like they have all day.

It breaks her heart, because this is where dream logic dies -- on its feet, mid-sentence, three words on its lips, deafened by the rattle of bone.

Villanelle always knows, in the moment. She knows to kiss her deeply, to anchor her, to be thorough and make it count, strong hands smoothing over unbroken skin, panicked devotion, quickly now, before it’s over again --

.  
.  
.

When Eve wakes, she’s always wet. Throbbing. Close.

Ashamed.

She provides for herself. One hand on her throat and one between her legs, rubbing hard until her hips buck to be pinned down, coming as she chokes on someone’s name.

Afterward, Eve sleeps like the dead.

**Author's Note:**

> helloooo. I'm gonna do a few casual kinktober prompts for 2020! If there are any prompts in particular you'd like to see, let me know and I might add them to this collection. Your thoughts are always welcome. <3


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